


All these dying things

by geckosandstarks



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, I don't hate him anymore, I wrote this when I hated his character, SO SORRY, becuase she's an actual princess, but he sucks in this, finn's a dick, gladiator!bellamy, jake is also sucky, princess!clarke, serious finn bashing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-19
Updated: 2014-11-19
Packaged: 2018-02-26 07:35:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2643521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckosandstarks/pseuds/geckosandstarks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I would not think the Emperors daughter would concern herself with such triviality, of a gladiator’s name.” </p><p>OR</p><p>that fic where Bellamy is a gladiator and he falls in love with actual princess Clarke Griffin</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

She noticed that they were the same colour.

The dark, crimson substance flowing freely from the man’s neck, it matched the confident, swirling patterns lying almost carelessly on the ropes of her falling gown, their vibrant red now belonging to a memory of cruel death.

His breaths grew laboured, his body lay dying, and she saw the light finally fall from his eyes, diminished. She had never been one to shy away from the torment of the Coliseum, but at this particular display of unwavering brutality, threw her eyes from the sight.

She found no comfort in the crowds, their hunger for sanguinary a most dictating sight.

“Does this not please you, my child?” Her father questioned, capturing her skin between his rough, calloused fingers. His eyes were as they had always been, she cold and calculating, happiness a foreign concept.

She tried to stretch her lips forward in some kind of helpless smile.

She failed.

“I am fine, fath- Emperor.” She corrected quickly, forcing her eyes back onto the warriors locked in battle.

Battle? She found herself wanting to laugh. A sharp sound, a mockery. The way her father laughed. Because this was not battle- this was merely _entertainment._

They caught in a grapple, the entertainers, tearing away at each other like predators over a kill.

The dark haired boy, (no, not boy, for he clearly was a man) the one whom Clarke had seen fight and kill all his opponents today, he threw the other boy (this one really was a boy, thin and frail, hair so blonde it could be kissed a winter white) down, over his shoulder and to floor so fast and so hard, the sound of his bones shaking and cracking echoed in her mind, imprinting on this savage memory.

He didn’t look like a beast, this dark haired boy – _man._ No, not a beast, she thought. But a broken toy, lost without purpose or matter.

A murderer, and he was broken.

What a sadistic little world this was.

She wanted to turn away again, repel from the sight, but suddenly he was looking at her, _staring_ at her, with those dark brown eyes.

And he didn’t like her, that much was clear from the perpetual hatred that shone bright in his eyes, but something lay underneath that, something as innocent as a child’s curiosity, layered and hid with such an expert hand, she found herself both appalled and transfixed that she could peer inside a murderers eyes, teeter over the edge.

And the revulsion came again, quick and sticking to her like tar, when she found herself wanting to hurl her body over the edge, see deeper into those eyes.

He tore away his gaze before she had a chance too, and she drew in a shaky breath, ignoring the pecking study of her father’s coal-eyed inspection.

She truly did turn her head again when her father plunged his thumb downward and the man delivered his next kill, and the roaring of the crowd tore away at the little purity left of her.

\---

“Come, daughter! Meet my favourite!” Her father beckoned, the arena empty, save the few gladiators scattered across the bloodied ground.

She fought a shiver.

She repulsed anyway.

She came to a standstill in front of the dark eyed man.

 The Emperor laughed heartily beside her, and Clarke was reminded of the tales she’d be told as a child to keep her from causing trouble- talks of man-eating bears, blood-thirsty beasts.

Perhaps her mother had sought inspiration from her father.

The dark haired boy fell to one knee in front of them, though Clarke noticed the stiffness in his movements, and that when he kissed her father’s hand, it looked as if though he wanted to sink his teeth inside it instead.

The Emperor smiled warmly, though the sadistic glint never left his eyes, gestured for the dark haired boy to stand.

“Clarke, my child, this is my finest gladiator. My strongest fighter.” Clarke recalled the way he had looked on prideful as the fighter had slain his opponents mercilessly, and fought down the choking bile.

The fighter looked at her once again, and his gaze consumed her. Not in the way of lovers, but in a passionate hostility, fraught with familiar specks of enquiry.

She gulped silently.

A crash sounded behind them, and the Emperor took off quickly, shouting and cursing obscenities, and leaving the two.

It was silent for less than five seconds.

“Do you have a name, finest gladiator?” She asked, studying him as he did so to her.

His response was to raise an eyebrow in loud sarcastic question.

“I would not think the Emperors daughter would concern herself with such triviality, of a gladiator’s name.” He replied, his arms crossing over his chest in a glaring surprise.

“If you are favoured by the Emperor, it is a daughter’s duty to act in an acceptable manner, the Emperor, if he here, would order it so. Does my asking of a name displease you?” She explained herself quickly, and then added on, in curiosity.

His dark eyes betrayed no emotions, and locked away thoughts, his face remaining stoic under her scrutiny, unwilling to surrender anything but little speech and mocking words.

He scoffed lightly. “As if you would follow any orders told to you by a man.”

She was not expecting that.

“I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“Oh, I’m afraid you do.”

She took a step back now, unsure of how his attitude towards her has changed.

“Clip your tone, fighter. And speak not in riddles, when I’m sure simplicity would suit you far finer.”

He smirks now slightly at her rebuttal, seeing the flame spark beneath her words.

“Do I intrigue you, princess?” It’s a sudden question, and she sees he enjoys the game that he is playing with her.

“I can promise you do not.” She lies slightly, and it is only with slight, because his complexity only bothers her little.

She tells herself this, anyway.

He doesn’t believe it, anyway.

“Why do you lie princess? I will be truthful when I say you intrigue me so.”

She glares at him now, unsure of how the conversation had reached this point.

“Do the whores that fall into your bed intrigue you also?”

He is stunned for only a second, before his features fold back into a smirk, and he leans against her ear.

“No.” He whispers, his breath hot against the cold skin of her ear, and she remembers the spray of the blood in this gladiator’s hair.

She pulls away quickly, unnerved, and begins to walk away from him.

“Princess!” He calls, and she turns back only slightly, only seeing the raging curls atop his head, the dark focused eyes, and the lips stretched into a grin.

“Bellamy.” He says. “My name is Bellamy.”

She leaves very swiftly after that.


	2. Chapter 2

She does not return to the stadium, with the days that follow.

When the servants enter in the morning, pull aside thick red drapes that reveal the humming of early morning, a low groan spills from her lips, and she brings up a hand to shield herself from what is usually a pleasant light, now scathing against her skin.

She moans again, more vocal this time, and three servants dash to her side.

“Princess? Whatever is it that ails you?” The scarcely contained shrillness in the servant’s voice makes Clarke wince, and bury herself further within the silk of her ruby covers, the sheer softness of them against her skin, she finds comfort in them, and wishes she could cocoon herself in their chambers.

What a pleasant thing that would be.

 The gentle tug on her covers reminds she is still is reality. She surfaces only a little, the light in the room blinding her as she drowsily blinks away the sleep in her eyes.

“I am not feeling in the best of health. Please call for my mo- the empress.” Her voice is groggy, strained, as though something scratches against her throat.

The servant that hovers above her head nods, and bows as she leaves, which Clarke waves away, uncomfortable with the show of complete servitude.

Clarke’s head collapses into her pillows, her golden hair spraying out behind her like a rising sun, and her eyes glinting like green garnet. She shutters them away, sighing softly. She would not admit to anyone, much less herself, but a tiny part of her, had actually been looking forward to going to the coliseum today. Not for the kills, not for the _entertainment,_ but for the chance of catching a glance of that gladiator again- _Bellamy._

Their talk had haunted her thoughts until she’d slept, and yet in rest she found she could still not be free of him, his eyes clouding her dreams, the way he’d fixed her in place with his unyielding gaze. His glaring, hating gaze.

He obviously had no thoughts of her, so why could she not seem to rid herself of these endless, clearly meaningless, thoughts of him?

A sharp coldness knocked her out of her thoughts, she audibly gasped, and looked up to be met with her mother’s soft gaze. _Oh._

The coolness radiating from her palm is soothing to Clarke’s boiling skin, and she leans into her mother’s hand. Abby gently smiles, though concern etches its way into her features, as she feels Clarke’s warm skin.

“Oh, Clarke, are you feeling unwell my child?” She asks tenderly, moving her hand to touch her daughter’s cheek.

“Oh mother, my skin burns as hot as the sun rises in the sky, and my head, it aches so, as though someone has drilled a hole inside of it.” Clarke exclaims breathlessly, forgetting herself for a moment, and her mother’s accepted title. Abby does not scold her, but offers a sympathetic smile as her daughter lists off her woes.

“Clarke, perhaps it would be better for you to stay-“Abby’s voice is kind against Clarke’s ears, but is cut off rudely as her father- the Emperor falls into her chambers, pushing roughly against the door.

“Are you unwell?” He asks brusquely, standing stiffly, hovering close to her door, uncomfortable in the foreign space.

Clarke looks back to her mother, who smiles encouragingly, but removes her palm from her cheek, and straightens, walking to go and stand by her father’s side.

Jake’s eyebrows raise, bobbing his head impatiently. “Well? Are you in ill health?”  Clarke pushes her head down, embarrassed at the impatience she has caused him.

“Yes, Emperor. My head- it, it hurts, and my skin, it burns.” She does not have the right words, and her clumsy speech makes the reddening on her cheeks grown brighter and warmer.

She does not look up to see him nod quickly. “Very well. You will stay here, until you are in better strengths, and we will look for remedies to cure the illness. Your mother shall accompany me to the coliseum today.” He orders, and while Clarke nods, (clenching her fists under the sheets all the while –he _never_ simply asks) Abby turns to look at her betrothed.

“Oh I shall, shall I?” She asks, uncaring of the servant presence that looks on in quiet shock, and the cold eyes Jake turns on her.

“Yes, my dear. You _will_ accompany me.” His tone leaves no room for argument, but she still glares at him and ‘hmps’ as she brushes past him on her way out.

And when Jake finally leaves, despite the pounding in her head and the boiling of her skin, Clare sniggers.

\---

“Raven, _please.”_ Clarke begged her most trusted servant- ‘servant’- she hated that word – while the dark haired girl pressed a cool towel to her forehead.

“Clarke, this idea of yours is ludicrous, and I refuse to go through with it!” She exclaimed quietly, setting the towel down and crossing her arms over her chest.

Clarke sighed. She’d been locked up in her chambers for an entire _week,_ with only the occasional visit from her father to check on her progress, (she didn’t know where her mother was, but she longed for her presence) her doctors to feed her disgusting remedies, and her servants – especially Raven – to keep her company.

She really was coming into better health now, but the doctors still thought her skin was too pale, her eyes still too dull, and though she tried to insist, they would only listen to her father’s opinion, who, of course, had ordered another week of bed rest.

She longed for the company of the birds that would circle around the skittering clouds that were painted into the sky, longed to hear the rumbling of sale chatter out on the market, longed to see past these four walls that seemed to trap her like a cage.

Oh, she longed for an escape.

“Raven, if I don’t get out soon I fear I will have to take drastic measures. Measures in which I will not ask for your help.” She warned, sitting up in bed, rivalling Raven’s glare.

They sat there for what seemed like hours, until Raven finally broke, her shoulders slumping, and her fingers reaching up to pull of the headdress that covered the entirety of her face.

“Fine, Clarke, you win. But if we get caught-“

“We won’t, we won’t.” Clarke said, excitement rumbling through her voice. “Now quit chattering, and hand me your veil.”

\---

Clarke exited the chambers, almost bouncing with excitement and stopped the servant that went to enter.

“The princess wishes to rest. She asked to not be disturbed for a while. Please make sure no-one goes inside.” Clarke said quickly, looking away from the servant. Her blonde curls may have been tucked back, away from view, and her blue eyes may have been hidden behind a veil, but Clarke was nothing, if not cautious.

Though the servant nods, and Clarke releases a breath she was _very_ aware she was holding, and makes her way out of the palace, memorizing the path of stone and water as she leaves.

\---

Clarke’s expectations of the market were not what she was met with.

She’d always been looking down on the people, smiling and waving as they cheered as her and her father and mother had been carried through the streets, and she’d always loved the sights of the stalls, decorated with such pretty things, she longed to walk through the streets and cradle every single one of them.

Now though, her feet were planted firmly on the ground, and she could no longer see any of the pretty things. People shouted obscenities and hurled insults that Clarke was otherwise innocent to, and she turned away sharply as though the words stung her ears.

She knew the streets well, but with all these people moving along them, she found it hard to navigate, even had trouble keeping herself upright at times.

She eventually begins to shove at the crowds, which to seems to no avail, until something twinkling catches her eye. She turns, and sees a market stool crammed full of bracelets, and necklaces and rings, all different colours. From deep set reds, to fading blues. Though she notices the common trend with them, she notices, is that they are all beautiful.

She moves closer, and sees that what originally drew her to the stand is a winding bracelet, that looks as though it twists from the wrist to the mid fore-arm. It is an off-set bronze in colour, with a single tiny green gem that shines in the sun. It is in the form of a snake’s body, with the gem acting as an eye.

She loves it.

“Do you like it?” A girl asks, Clarke looks up to see a girl that looks a couple years her junior, with dark brown hair and eyes that shine as bright as the gem.

“It’s- yes, yes I love it.” She says, smiling broadly at the girl, and looking down to see she had been cradling the bracelet in her hands.

“Do you wish to buy it, then?” She asks, and Clarke sees she looks hopeful, and she hates that she’s about to shatter that.

“I would, I’d love to, I- I just don’t have any money.” She says, placing the bracelet back down on the black cloth covering the table, and looking up to smile sadly at the girl. She wishes she had thought to bring money, but she’d been so caught up in her excitement, she’d dashed out of the palace walls before she’d had a chance.

The brown-haired girls smile doesn’t falter though, and she leans over to pick the bracelet back up and place it back into Clarke’s hands, winding her pale fingers around it. She looks up at her in mild shock and confusion, but the girl only smiles brighter, shaking her head.

“A gift. From me to you.” She says, and before Clarke can begin to object, she adds on quietly, “Princess.”

Clarke looks up in shock, and opens her mouth to exclaim that of course she isn’t the princess, it’s a ludicrous idea, the princess is sick, in bed, and she’s only-

“We met before, when we were children. I don’t expect you to remember me, but you were the princess, so how could I forget you?” She asks rhetorically, bringing her head down in an abashed manor.

“Octavia.” Clarke says, recalling the little girl with the wild brown locks and the innocent green eyes. Octavia looks up and grins, only just stopping herself from hurling herself across the stall and wrapping her arms around the princess.

\---

The girls chatter for a little while longer, before Octavia has to deal with more looking customers, and Clarke leaves, but only after she promises to pay her back.

Clarke slips the winding bracelet around her wrist, holding her arm up in the sun to study it further. She’s grinning to herself when someone yanks on her arm and pulls her into a dark corner.

Her eyes go wide, and she goes to scream, when a tanned hand covers her mouth. She screams anyway, hoping someone will hear it (She knows nobody will).

“It’s me.” A deep voice mutters against her ear, pulling back to look at her.

She looks up, and is met with the dark eyes that had haunted her dreams nights before.

Of course.

She glares at him through her veil, she could have his head for this (but she won’t), and ‘patiently’ waits for him to remove his hand.

Instead, he begins to kiss her neck.

She gasps, (what is he _doing?),_ as his hand slips from her mouth and moves to hang around her waist. She knows she should take this opportunity to scream, but he’s s _till_ kissing her neck, and his lips are warm and it’s becoming increasingly harder to keep her focus on pushing him off of her, and not from melting into the warmth and strength of his hands.

His lips continue their scorching trail up her neck, and she feels them inching closer to her own, and she shakes her head, and pushes him away from her, clearing her head of thoughts of him, and replacing them with thoughts of _what?_

He looks confused, until she rips off her veil.

The colour drains from his face.

“And just what do you think you’re _doing,_ gladiator?” She demands, though still breathless from the heat of his lips, and the shock of the situation.

“I didn’t- I thought- You’re wearing Ravens clothes.. I-“

He shakes his head, still staring at her as if she is some alien concept, and tries to create more distance between them.

“Excuse me, princess.” He mutters, and stalks out of the alleyway.

Clarke stared after him, slumped against the wall.

What had just happened?


	3. Chapter 3

** Part 3 **

The carriage drove idly by on the crooked paths, the steady beat of the horses trot, the only thing Clarke chose to focus on, instead of the gushing giggles of the crowd outside.  Her father sat loosely next to her, waving and smiling, all teeth, at the crowds, she knew, enjoying the adoration they held for him.

She almost wanted to roll her eyes, and when she caught herself wanting this, reigned back, trying to regain the image of the perfect princess her father expected her to be. Especially, when in public.

Except, prefect princesses did not sneak away from their fathers, did not fake ill health in order to deceive them, and they most certainly were not corned in dark alleys, alleys where Apollo’s horses did not rule supreme, where the darkness crept in and concealed you away from the glittering light, only just long enough, for you to commit the darkest of deeds, so sinful and so-

and she was off again, thinking about that rotten _gladiator._

She simply refused to call him by his name.

Even if it, had maybe, been her insistence to call him by his name in the first place, she refused anyway.

And she was most definitely not thinking about the way he’d held her up against that wall, the warmth of his hands somehow managing to diminish the cold of the stone wall behind her, the way his dark eyes had fixed her in place with a different kind of look to the first one he’d ever given her. The one he’d given her, when he actually knew her identity, that was.

Her slight fascination with the gladiator unsettled her. She was a _princess,_ the princess of Rome, and the daughter of the great emperor Griffin. It was not the correct thing to do, to let her mind dance away with the nymphs, swirl and leap and twist with the thoughts of the-

the _common_ as her father would say.

To occupy herself, she slid a quick, calculating glance to her father. He had insisted, now that he saw Clarke to be in better health, that she accompany him to the coliseum today. To an outsider of the family, no meaning would be seen behind the words of his actions of the day, as Clarke was usually on his arm, her mother too faint hearted to see such carnage, (she wasn’t really, but the queen really was, quite an excellent liar) but Clarke knew better. However distant and cold their relationship had become, he was still her father, and Clarke had saw the gleam in his eyes, the tiny little smile, that tugged impatiently at his lips, as though it wanted to escape, and fold out fully and truly over his lips.

Oh the emperor had a scheme forming.

And it was coming nicely together.

And something told Clarke, had it been her father’s unusually smirking mood, or the way her mother had held her to her tightly before she’d left, whispering the words ‘I love you’ over and over again as if they were a lifeline to cling to, that this scheme involved her.

All of her.

And truthfully, she was just a tiny bit terrified.

.              .                .

The crowds’ roars rise as the man’s head is ripped away from his body, blood and guts and gore settling the prowling beasts the Clarke thinks may roam inside them. She should be disgusted, she _is_ truly repulsed at the sight of the severed head, and she can feel the gag of vomit at the back of her throat, but still her gaze drifts to him. _Him,_ cradling the head between his arms like a child.

She has no schoolgirl deceptions about him. She knows exactly what he is, and she knows he is a murder. But by default, does this make him a monster? She finds it a most troubling thought, a murder blinking though the eyes of a monster. Entwined, for an eternity.

She blinks through glazed over eyes at him, but unlike that first day, he does not look at her by her father’s side. He does not let his dark eyes fall heavily on her, consume her as they once did.

He throws the man’s head in his arms to the side of the discarded body, and if her eyes were not so quick, not so completely focused on him, she thinks that she wouldn’t have caught the sharp glint of something like dull silver pressed into his hand, only the top of it showing from his palm balled up into a fist.

“Clarke!” Clarke jumps slightly from her intense study, turning swiftly to face her father, only to see a dark haired man ( _boy, this is a boy)_ standing close to her instead, his posture proud and tall.

“Clarke, my daughter, I introduce you to Senator Collins. He is of noble birth, and has some _excellent_ ideas when it comes to governing Rome – not that, that concerns you in any way-“ _(he is a cruel man and they both know it)_ “but, I have high hopes for you, for the both of you.” He smiles and it’s all teeth and daggers. “I know you’re, let’s say _sentimental_ shall we, when it comes to matters of the heart,” _(he knows nothing of her heart but let’s pretend he does)_ “so I’d suggest you become _acquainted_ with one another quickly, yes?”

Perfect princesses do not wish to gouge their fathers eyes out with their bare fingers and it is in that moment that Clarke knows she will never be one because _she wants to do so much more than that._

The images that play in her mind are graphic and all come to one single fairly gruesome conclusion that mean the separation of her father’s head from his body. It’s something very close to hatred that rushes through her then, in that single moment seized with the _wanting,_ the wanting to turn and run and flee and to hide in the darkest corners of the world where her father and her _fiancée_ will never find her.

How could she not have seen this coming? _(Because she is a foolish, foolish girl fascinated by a monster.)_ The way the unshed tears had glistened in her mother’s eyes, as if her heart was cracking into jagged pieces, tearing and ripping, the love and wholeness broken. And of course, the way her father had scanned her as though a stamp to seal a deal.

She was on the verge of womanhood, the innocence that fluttered around inside her truly pulling to any man, but she found she simply _despised_ the way that the Senator looked at her, his gaze too sharp, too much like her fathers, but also the sick gleam in his eye as he drinks in the delicate curve of her hips, the way he eyes linger too long on the length of her chest.

And she is to marry _him?_

He reaches for her hand and plants a kiss against her knuckles, much to the pleasure of her father and the disgust of her, though of course, her opinion is not valid, she is only the bride, after all.

“Please, princess, call me Finn.”

His voice bristles, makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand up, though not in the way Bellamy had, _(the gladiator, you silly girl)_ but in the way of them wanting to tear away from the skin and run away and hide.

She doesn’t smile, doesn’t speak, as they both expect her to, but drops back down into her seat, ignoring the _hiss_ of her name through her father’s lips, and the slight uncomfortable shift in the Senators stance. They are only men, after all.

The Senator clears his throat, coming to stand at her side and her father sinks back into his seat beside her, his eyes _burning,_ and she knows even this small act is too reckless, too rebellious for a princess but she doesn’t care because the bastard _is marrying her off._

The gladiator remains locked in combat with another, though from the look of the defeated stance of the much smaller man, this is already another battle won. All dark eyes and strained arms the gladiator fights though this isn’t a fight, not really, (that fist still remains tightened and tense and this gladiator is leaving her more questions and she hates him for it),and the smaller man falls into the sand, panting and gasping and _begging,_ (she doesn’t but let’s pretend she does) begging not for a longer life, but for a quick death.

The gladiator looks to her father’s approval ( _no no no it will never be yes)_ and the Senator chooses that exact moment to place his cold hand against her shoulder, all stone and no warmth and of course _someone’s_ eyes manage to land on her, for the first time that day.

Well no, not exactly on _her,_ but more on the hand that rests against the thin material of her dress, and there is quick shock in his eyes, and then, for the most fleeting of moments, there is _jealously._

Bellamy (there really is no other thing to call him, not after _that)_ looks at her and his eyes are hooded and dark, but she sees it, and for a second he looks so _angry_ that she breaks the gaze.

Her father’s thumb is, as it always is, pointing down down down, and he is smiling his sick little smirk and she knows she should not look back to the arena but she does and regrets it instantly.

Bellamy drags back the man that had desperately been trying to crawl away from him, his tanned hands fisted in the man’s dark hair and unflinchingly pushes the spear through his head.


	4. Chapter 4

**Part 4**

She did _not_ remember agreeing to this.

This rendezvous with Senator Collins, a meeting her father had insisted upon, of course. She remembers the way his cold blue eyes had smiled her, _(cold cold cold, he’s always been so cold)_ his lips pulled up in a predatory smirk, the glint of his eyes like steel.

She thinks steel is a good word to describe him, cool, and strong, and _sharp._

Clarke remembers how hard she’d had to bite into the inside of her cheek when her father had been explaining how the day would go to her, not once, not _once_ asking her of her thoughts on the situation, not once giving her the option.

 When he’d told her that, after her marriage ceremony to Senator Collins, she should produce male heirs quickly, avoid the disappointment daughters may bring, she’d barely noticed the bitter pain of teeth and gum and _blood_ because what had her life, the entirety of her being been, other than an effort to please him? She was marrying a stranger, a man she knew she’d never find fondness for in her heart for, all for _him._

Surely this had handled the _misfortune_ of her gender enough.

_(More more more he always wants more than she could ever give.)_

They were out in the mid-afternoon sun, the gentle sheen of day a tender lull to an aching mind, but Clarke found little comfort in the soft bask of the sun, rays like fire on the back of her neck.

_(Can’t forget, won’t forget.)_

She was trying to enjoy herself, she really was. But she couldn’t entertain the possibility of ever experiencing any type of pleasure with the company of the man that stood, with ease, beside her.

 _Any_ type of pleasure.

And with the more time she spent in the Senators company, the more her quiet detest grew for him, clawing from the inside at her, begging to be let out and unleashed on the objectionable man.

He sent her these looks sometimes, these very specific looks, like... like he wanted to _consume_ her. Not in the way that a man lusts after a woman (though these types of looks were not exactly uncommon), but in the way of destruction, tearing through something and marking it and claiming it, and breaking it and snapping it until it’s on its knees, ready to submit, and ready to _die._

She hated these looks.

He smiles now, and she can’t help but be a little repulsed, because he is all daggers for teeth and such an exact shadow of her father she wonders how he can stand in the sun. For a second she thinks he may burn, but then she remembers that shadows do not burn, they only shrink, growing smaller and smaller, until the darkness they thrive on is finally eliminated, and they shrink, dying.. . oh so slowly…

_(Don’t forget won’t forget.)_

She ignores the slight sting that comes with the hostile gaze of the people around her. She had always held a strong fondness the people of Rome, and she knew that they had always favoured her as a royal. _After,_ her father of course. And so, she knew this look of loathing belonged not to her, but to the boy that stood beside her. _Finn._

The name had not once passed her lips since the ultimatum of their paring, and if the ghost of a thought brought her such discomfort, then she was sure it never would.

The people, oh how they _hated_ their dear senator. His big _ideas_ of governing Rome never accounted for the poor, skipping over them, in the way a general may look at his battles, count the losses and victories, and when it is something he disproves of, order a scribe to write down all his battles as won, adding to the power of Rome and choosing to wash over his mistakes with a ink so dark it may just be enough to keep the truth of history hidden beneath a murky shroud.

_(The ink will run and wash away crying lies on a winter day)._

He relied on the rich to keep his pockets deep, and chased after their daughters like a wolf ensnaring a rabbit in his traps.

He was always thickly armoured in his charms, of course. And if those failed on the girls, (they rarely did, his smile so wide and false like the jewellery he bought for her) there was always the threat of him ruining them, destroying their reputation if they did not comply with his commands.

Of course, he’d never do that to _her –_ his _fiancée._

_(He would and you know it you silly silly girl)._

And so she does not answer his smile, but rather begins to whisk her way through the crowd, ignoring the lapping soldiers at her side. She would not need them, had she come alone, but of course her father would never had allowed this.

And the senator _definitely_ needed them.

She passes market stalls shouting their greetings at the princess with a polite smile, seeing as they try to avoid the wandering gaze of the boy trailing behind her -especially the young, pretty girls.

She truly can’t find it in her heart to hold it against them.

She soon finds herself falling into the familiar path that leads towards Octavia’s small stand of glittering jewels. She looks down now at her own wrist, gently trailing her finger down the dulling metal towards her forearm. The glinting green gem shines as faithfully as ever.

She reaches the stall quickly, though notes the missing head of dark curls and bright green eyes.

“Octavia?” She tests, calling the girls name quietly, and gasping louder when the head in question pops up from behind the stall, grinning when she makes eye contact with Clarke.

“Princess!” She exclaims happily as she extends fully, righting her gown. (She doesn’t notice the way Finn’s eyes latch onto the tiniest part of bare shoulder that had been exposed. Clarke does but let’s pretend she doesn’t).

“Octavia! What were you doing down there?” She asks, smiling fondly at the girl as she becomes flustered.

“Oh! Well, I-I dropped my bracelet. My apologies, princess. Senator.” Clarke now notices the dull gold that covers Octavia’s thin wrist and smiles, again with affection.

“Worry not. Now that you’re here, I can buy some of these beautiful jewels.” She laughs a little at the way Octavia’s eyes light up with a childlike enthusiasm, happy that she can at least pay for herself this time round.

Clarke turns to the Senator, her expression like steel.

“Senator, I think that this stall is not quite suited to you, personally. And I’d hate for our first outing to be to your displeasure. Perhaps you could find a stall that you could appreciate, and we could come together, later on.” She was careful in her tone as to phrase it as a suggestion, even ending with a quick turn of the lips one may call a smile, but they both saw that what she really was trying to do, was _remove_ him from the scene.

A smirk stretched out across his lips and she did her best not to grind her teeth together.

She tried, really.

“Ah, yes, but dear _princess,”_ she hated how the word slithered from his lips, “as this is our first _‘outing’_ together, surely we should stay together, wouldn’t you agree?” He spread his arms wide, tilting his head to the side and fixing her in place with a questioning (patronizing) look.

She tightens her fists together, bringing them to link behind her back. “Of course, Senator. And while you’re here, you could purchase some jewels for your mother. Oh, I’m sure she’d just adore that, wouldn’t _you_ agree?” A compromise, Clarke smirked at her own words.

His own smirk dropped, and for a second, she thought she saw his lips curl and his eyes grow even darker, but then the smirk was back in place as if nothing had happened and she was left to wonder if it actually had.

“Yes, I’m sure she’d…” He picked up a particularly damaged silver ring, thin and frail with visible scratches running along its side, inspecting it with a critical gaze, before simply dropping it back down onto the table. “ _Love it.”_

Clarke glared at him while his head was turned, before turning to smile assuredly at Octavia, whose gaze had grown worried.

Oh, she worried too much.

.              .                .

Clarke paid Octavia for the bracelet she’d bought last time round, (while the Senator’s head had been turned with some pretty young thing, and in low tones so the guards didn’t hear) despite her protests of ‘it was a gift’, and then picked and bought a few other select items, making sure the Senator dipped into his pockets as well.

She threw her head back in laughter, not at the terrible joke Octavia had made, but rather her own reaction to it – her dark curls surrounded her as she grew red in the face trying desperately to suck in air through fits of giggles.

A flash of dark curls brings her attention to something on her right, where the stalls begin to thin out. Her laughter dims as she turns her head, and she becomes rather curious instead, as she sees _him._

The gladiator, Bellamy, he stands to the side, arguing with a man. The man has dark brown hair, and is clearly many years his senior, and she can’t the colour of his from his eyes from the distance, but she sees they are dark, as dark as the falling sky.

She doesn’t immediately dislike him, but is conflicted as to whether she does actually like him.

She realises too late that she’s been staring for too long, because the brown haired man is furiously whispering something to Bellamy, and then they both turn and they’re both staring at her.

She faults just a little in her step, hit with the intensity of both their stares, but then Bellamy looks past her, and when she turns just a little, she sees to Octavia, and his gaze softens considerably.

And then hardens again when it lands on the Senator.

She turns her head a little more, and finds that the Senator is leaning close to Octavia, and she looks uneasy with the sudden attention he is giving her. She is angry, not because she is jealous, (never never **never** will she be jealous for him) but because she sees how uncomfortable Octavia is, and how he is making her feel.

“ _Senator.”_ The bark comes out of the bite, and they both look up, but she only lifts an eyebrow at him, and the message is seemingly understood when he leans away.

She smiles at Octavia reassuringly, and turns again to face the men across from her. They stare at her, the older man studying, and Bellamy – well, he looks bewildered. The man has a hand against Bellamy’s chest, it seems holding him back, but now he pulls his hand away and whispers harshly to him. Bellamy glowers, passing him some paper, folded over with something she can’t see inside.

They disperse suddenly, striding off into different directions, as if it had never happened- the little hand off.

She knows she should just let it go. Ignore the interaction as any other would, as any _sane person would._ This is a gladiator! If she is to follow him… well, anything could happen. She should return to the day her father had planned, she should know her place, she should…

She should do a lot of things that she won’t.

She turns to mumble an excuse, but finds Octavia tending to a customer, and the Senator tending to his kind of customer. She smiles.

It doesn’t take much to slip away from the guards, considering they’d already been uninterested in the day’s events. She trails the steps Bellamy had taken, walking until she reaches a darkened alleyway. _Again._

It is daytime, so just _how_ can such a short passage be so dark that it is as if the stars are already out, twinkling above her?

She resists stomping her foot down in frustration, because _of course_ she’d try to follow him and then lose him in an alleyway.

She sighs, and turns to lea-

“I feel like this is becoming a recurring theme. You. Me. Alleyway. Maybe try to keep your distance this time round.” He steps out of the shadows, darkness falling away from his shoulders and smiles.

 _Smiles,_ as though they old friends sharing stories.

“I seem to recall it was you who couldn’t keep his hands to himself.” She bats back at him, though unsure of this sudden, more confident approach he’s taking with her. Had he not avoided her gaze for weeks in the arena now?

“And _I_ seem to recall it was you with a mask over her face.” He folds his arms, and for a second, just a s _econd,_ her eyes drift towards the tan muscles, before snapping them back up in time to catch his smirk.

“It’s what all the girls are wearing.” She tries, trying to keep a straight face.

“No, it’s what Raven usually wears.” He quirks an eyebrow, and she turns her back to him, biting her lip.

“Are you ill, gladiator?” She asks, keeping her nerves steady.

“Princess?” He enquires, taking a step forward she cannot see.

“Only it seems, your mood changes as often as day and night. You are quite an impossible person and… and I would like you to stop.” She decides suddenly, keeping her back to him.

“Stop?”

“Yes. Stop being so impossible. Decide your thoughts on me, and then- and then just-“

“Let you know?”

She turns, finding him much closer than he originally was. Not so close that they share the same air, but close enough so that she can see the way his pupils dilate, and the redness of his lips.

She takes in a breath, ignoring the slight shiver that runs down her spine.

“Yes. That would be… most convenient.”

He steps closer and suddenly they _are_ sharing the same breathing space, but she won’t step back and give opportunity for that smirk to grow wider, and he leans down, and he is so _close,_ and ( _you’re forgetting you’re forgetting he’s a murder you silly girl)_ and she can feel his hot breath at her ear and she doesn’t register his words until he’s stepped away and around her.

_“You’ll be the first.”_


	5. Chapter 5

**Part 5**

Bellamy thought his conscience, as he plunged the sword into the man’s stomach.

He knew it was far from clean, so bloody and murky now, he didn’t know if it ever had been. He’d grown so accustomed to the beckon of the arena, the way death sat on his shoulder, whispering things in his ear, caressing its bony fingers against the gleam of his sword. Silence seemed such a heavy burden to him now, when all alone in the dead of the night, he’d be left with nothing but his wandering thoughts, not distracted by the screaming masses that lined up in the arena.

And that’s when it grew dangerous, against the painted sky. When he was left to reflect on the troubles of his mortality, the souls that hammered against his fragile sanity, the souls he’d condemned to a darkness from which they could never return.

He felt guilt, of course. In his first days as a gladiator, it was all he could ever feel. Hot and thick and coarse, and burning through his lungs so. It tore him down, and hung against the gentle balance of his mind, swinging and pulling and laughing until all he could determine that the sky was above him and ground was below. He’d lost the sense of what was right and what was wrong, burned away by the sin that had turned into sobs. He held together the pieces of himself at night, weeping and bawling until the other gladiators threw their things at him, ordering him quiet.

He hadn’t been born into this life, and it’d never been one he’d thought he’d have to choose. His family had not been one of wealth, but their mother had managed to feed them each day, and before their father had left them, he’d taught Bellamy how to fight, how to protect himself. When their father had disappeared from their lives, wishing more than their meagre circumstances, their mother had fallen apart, barely managing to provide. Octavia was only small at the time, she couldn’t begin to understand, but Bellamy had saw the hole his father created with his absence, and despite his young age, worked to feed Octavia.

He didn’t have to work to love her, that came effortless.

As her children grew, Aurora grew ill, and on the day of Bellamy’s sixteenth birthday, she died, leaving her children alone in this cruel, cruel world. ‘Tavia had only been ten young years, didn’t grasp the subject of her mother falling asleep and never waking up. She had sobbed, as children do, but Bellamy had not, standing over his mother’s body and comforting his little sister until her whimpers subsided, as ~~warriors~~ big brothers do.

He’d been left with a small child, and a panic that slowly consumed him. His mother had not done much, but she had brought in the little wealth they needed to eat. Work was hard to find in Rome, and not a single job would work to make sure they both ate well.

And so, for 3 long, hard years, Bellamy went through job after job. Always juggling multiple at any time. He regretted that he could spend so little time with his sister, but his priority was that she ate. She grew happy still, not letting a single smile drop from her lips, her eyes lighting up whenever Bellamy was around long enough for them to spend some time together.

He often went hungry, grew weak and frail, in making sure that Octavia never did. She often showed visible concern, which he would laugh off, cheekbones sharp, skin stretched over bone.

On the day of his nineteenth birthday, he knew something had to be done. He was so thin now, even thinner than his thirteen year old little sister. He was always so tired, a hammering pounding against his skull. He’d starved for three years, before he knew he’d had to do something. He couldn’t take care of Octavia in this state.

And so he became a thief. It wasn’t easy at first, but he learned by watching. He’d sit and see how men would oh-so-carefully let a chunk of cheese fall into their pocket, knock over a display, walk away with bread rolls hidden away in their tunics.

He’d been afraid, his first time. His heart had been beating so loudly he feared the constant pounding would alert people of his grievous intentions. But no, he’d slipped some fruit up his sleeve and the seller remained clueless. He’d walked away with beads of sweat dripping down the skin of his forehead, but he’d _actually done it._

Over the time of six months, he’d become of an expert, and had managed to gain weight that had turned into muscle, the hard labour of his jobs something of a helping hand. ‘Tavia’s joy only grew at seeing him in better health, which in turn, made him feel lighter, that he could make his sister smile again.

Killing was not as easy a skill to obtain.

He remembered his first kill. He hadn’t been a gladiator, at the time. He’d only been filling the role of protective big brother, when he’d slit his first throat.

He’d been calling for Octavia for hours, wandering through the city. He’d just finished work and had managed to grab them a rather respective meal of bread and fish, something he knew ‘Tavia would enjoy. He searched and searched, agonizing over the situations she could’ve stumbled into, her eyes wide and innocent. He did eventually find her, and the moment _the moment_ he did, his fists grew tighter and his heart grew harder.

She sat curled into a ball, sobbing, her tunic ripped and torn and gashes along her arms and legs that wept blood. _He_ stood in front of her, towering over her tiny body, pulling a tunic over his otherwise naked form, toga tossed aside. It took Bellamy approximately five seconds to piece together the situation.

As the Senator had reached for her once more, Bellamy had hurled himself at the man, raining down punches. The man had cried out and shoved Bellamy away from him, slapping Octavia across the cheek as she had reached out for her older brother.

With a roar, Bellamy picked up a dagger (lying there, almost carelessly on the floor, like it was _begging_ for the taste of blood) and lashed it across the man’s throat as he turned towards him.

Blood, thick and dripping rose to the wound, the man reached to his throat, gagging, mouth open to form a soundless scream. He fell, lifeless body colliding with the path, and head hitting with a sickening crack. Octavia still clutched to herself, shuddering. Tears dripped down her cheeks and onto the floor, where she stared at the body. Bellamy wound his arms around her, whispering into her hair as she clutched at his tunic, he felt the slight, sharp pain of her fingernails digging into his chest, but said nothing, glad for the ache, and for the reminder that she was still there, still with him.

Through the night she told him the story, whispers scattered in the starless sky. He stroked her hair through it all, and didn’t cry until she slept, tormented by the nightmare that he had been too late to save her from.

.     .     .     .     .

Side stepping the boy as he lunged for him, Bellamy turned, plunging the sword into his back, and dragging it down down down, his screams something mindless. The skin tore and ripped and Bellamy looked away, singing a song of redemption somewhere deep within.

He looked up, to the royals, as he found himself doing these days, for a glimpse of her golden hair. She stared at him with those pure blue eyes, her teeth digging into her bottom lip.

Oh, how he wanted her. He’d wanted her for years really, but had convinced himself that she was a princess, nothing more, a mockery of a woman. He hated her father _(the clock is ticking and the time will come, blood on your hands you’re sure to run)_ with a burning passion, and so he had pushed himself to hate her too.

It’d become easier the more time he spent in the arena. He could look into her eyes and skim down the length of her body and tell himself that he felt nothing for the girl that was slowly becoming a woman, but more importantly, he could _believe_ it.

Now though, from that first time she had looked at him, _really_ looked at him and kept his gaze captured within her own, he felt himself slipping. Found it harder to push thoughts of her from his mind. She was _pure_ and so different from him in what felt like every way, and from the second he laid his poisoned eyes on her two long years ago, he wanted _all_ of her, and he wanted to consume her and litter her thoughts with him as she had made permanent residence in his head.

He wasn’t in love with her, not yet, but with every conversation they had and with every lingering look sent his way, he felt something tap at the hardened shell of his heart.

He always tried not to look at her.

And he always failed.

With a creak, the doors to the arena groaned open, and in stumbled a man, his body skinny and his face greasy, clutching to a sword desperately.

These were always the worst ones.

Bellamy sighed. This would be his last fight of the day, and he’s been hoping for someone that was brutal, a murder that lessened the guilt weighing on his soul, not a skinny man that looked at him with eyes that dripped fear.

For a second, the other man’s gaze drifted, and Bellamy followed his line of sight. He saw that he looked at two women, both whom extended their arms to him, weeping. For a second he was taken aback, women were allowed in the Coliseum, but their attendance was usually rare, pale in comparison to the men. When they did attend, their eyes were as viscous as any mans, darker lips to shout darker words. But these two, they dressed in dark-coloured wool, as if already mourning a man whose heart remained in his chest. Their eyes were sorrowful, lips quivering, not forming to shout out roars of death.

And one, one had eyes as green as the feathers of a green-breasted mango, hair so dark it could’ve been dipped in the dye of raven feathers. And for a second, just for a second, Bellamy thought about ‘Tavia.

And then he was stabbed in the arm.

He cried out, lurching back, as the man opposite him pulled the sword away from him, leaving his wielding arm bleeding, and with a clatter, the sword he had been holding fell to the ground.

He could’ve sworn he saw a certain princess stand up in her seat.

He thought about letting the man kill him. He imagined himself, slashed to pieces with the kiss of the sword, the silver biting into his skin and tearing him away from himself. It was quite a quaint situation, and one he found not utterly undesirable. But then he thought about ‘Tavia, and he realised he was being selfish.

He was a big brother first, and a warrior second.

He sighed, as he slit the mans throat. He looked into the princess’ eyes, and he could’ve sworn he saw worry there. It was gone so quick though; he could never have hoped to classify it.

.     .     .     .     .

Bellamy lay in his small home (he was a _favoured_ gladiator, after all), moaning quietly at the pain running through his arm. He’d been attended too, he’d been bandaged, but that didn’t stop the pain, hot and fast, from dancing along the tendons in his arm, sticking to the skin.

He shifted uncomfortably, trying to lay his arm in a position where the ache would lessen, but no matter the position, it still burned, like the sun as it cut into the sky.

A shifting outside the door made him bolt upright, eyebrows drawing down in confusion.

He climbed out of bed, taking care not to disturb his arm and reached towards the door, slinging it open with a sword hanging lazily from his belt.

And there she stood, the night sky wrapping itself around her shoulders. She was dressed in servants wear, eyes and hair and face concealed behind a mask. Her pale hand looked as though it’d been poised to knock against the harsh wood of his door, the moon bouncing off the curve of her knuckles.

He tilted his head inquisitively at her presence.

“Princess? What are you-“ He began to say, but was cut off as she brought a single finger to her lips, signalling for him to remain quiet. He did as told, before hesitantly stepping aside to allow her entrance.  She took small, feeble steps, before turning to face him as the door shut.

They stayed silent for a few seconds, staring at each other through the space that separated them. Heat clung to the night, which they both felt, only adding to the tension of the atmosphere between them. And the suddenly, the few meters she stood from him was not enough, he needed her to be further, so he could not see the gentle curve of her body through the light of the moon that swam through the thin roof, could not see the way she brought her bottom lip into her mouth, eyes cloaked.

It wasn’t enough.

“What brings you to my door, at the dark of night, princess?”

The words hung between them, and he saw her fumble for an answer, the redness of her lips ever-present.

“The injury,” she said finally, her voice unsteady “the injury you sustained today, it-it looked fairly severe. I merely came to examine the physical health of my father’s favourite.” She explained, attempting to lean back slightly against the wall.

“Do you hide behind your words, princess?” He asked, accompanied by a testing flick of dark eyebrows.  He watched her face confront into something of offence, and she crossed her arms over her chest.

“Since when does a princess need to hide behind anything?” She asked, an almost joking scorn to her words, though her arms remained firmly crossed over her chest.

“When she becomes agitated with her actions.” He leant back now, as if he were at ease with the situation, when truly his heart felt as if it were beating faster than it ever had, screaming inside his chest.

Clarke groaned suddenly, ripping away her veil, forgetting herself in the presence of a gladiator, and rivalling his stare with a glare, her blood _boiling._

“It is not my _actions_ that agitate me. It is you! You with your hidden eyes and wandering words and your murdering hands. You make me feel _weak_ when I need to be _strong_ and it is not in my intentions to ever look at you or to ever speak to you, but I am ruled by this- this _desire_ to understand you and to want to know you and you are a _murderer_ but I see you as a man, and I don’t want too!” Clarke was breathless, her fists clenched at her sides, and Bellamy thought she looked beautiful like this and that was the only thought he could make in out in the dreary haze.

“Can you not see how you torment me so?” She cried now, desperate for a response, any response, if it meant that those dark eyes would leave her, and give her relief, if only for a moment. He only stepped closer though, the shroud of his dark eyes burning in the moonlight.

The only thing to be heard in the tiny hut was the breathless gasps of Clarke taking down air that had previously been consumed by her deceleration. The words danced and twirled in the air, swimming around the two in a haze of heat and captivation.

“I’m sorry, I should leave you.” Clarke said suddenly, bending to snatch away her discarded veil, but then as she straightened, suddenly he was _there,_ right in front of her.

She bit back a gasp.

“Do _I_ not see?” He said suddenly, his dark eyes accusing. “Princess- _Clarke,_ you have no idea of torment. Torment is seeing every day, seeing you look at me as if I am nothing, when to me you are the sun as it rises at its highest point, rays like curls,” he reached out, gently grasping a stand of twisted hair between his fingers, running his fingers down the length of it, “and your eyes like stars as they swirl through the shadows of the night, flaring to extinguish the nightmares that haunt.”

Clarke shook her head, her eyes betraying the sorrow to her heart. “Your words are sweet, but they are false. An infatuation based off this illusion of beauty-“

He cups her cheeks between rough, calloused hands, regaining her attention. “ _I had not finished.”_

She stilled, allowing him to stroke his hands down the gentle skin.

“For a time now, I have watched you in the stadium, as I have watched you in the city. And you are so much more than the beauty of your features. You are kind, your smile bright and it is more than grace and grandeur, something so simple with such hope. It is the nature of man to be corrupted by the sin of past, to fall into the bitter embrace of wrath and sorrow and to repeat our mistakes over time, laughing as they become of jest, but you- you seem so determined to create a future that shines bright and untarnished, and you are a gem among pieces of coal and rock, and you somehow remain blind to all this, which only makes you of greater quality than us all.”

She says nothing, she only stares at him, him and his words that are now so much more than simply sweet. There is a smile tugging at her lips that rivals the spark of the sun, and they’re still so close now, that their noses brush against each other’s.

“I barely know you.” She murmurs finally, eyes closed as his are.

“Bellamy Blake. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 


End file.
